


i fell in love with a war (nobody told me it ended)

by smallredboy



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Internal Monologue, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, New Relationship, Past Domestic Violence, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 16:03:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18897994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: And it left a pearl in my headAnd I roll it aroundEvery night, just to watch it glowEvery night, baby, that's where I goHouse isn't used to kindness.





	i fell in love with a war (nobody told me it ended)

**Author's Note:**

> for the 'domestic abuse' square in my bad things happen bingo card. i hate stacy warner and i've been listening to mitski: the fic.

House can’t sleep.

Wilson is asleep soundly next to him, his body heat rubbing off on him, but he can’t focus enough on the task of sleeping to do it. It’s an anniversary, but not a good one— it’s been a year ever since Stacy betrayed him. A year ever since he hasn’t been able to walk without a cane, a year ever since he put all of his sports attire deep into the closet. And about two months ever since Wilson got divorced and kissed him madly, promised him he’d love him just right.

He doesn’t even know what being loved just right is.

 _"Why are you so fucking mad at me? I did what was best for you!”_   
  
_“I’m in pain! Every fucking moment, I’m in pain! I can’t take this! I_ **_hate_ ** _you!”_

_“I’ll get you in some more fucking pain—”_ _  
_

He flinches at the memory, something that comes unconsciously. Wilson squirms in his sleep and drapes an arm over his stomach, and he forces himself to stay still.

And Wilson— he does love him just right, he assumes. There’s never any yelling, and when there is, it’s caused by him, and he always apologizes afterward. There’s never anything that escalates further than an argument, and they always end up in good terms in the end.

There’s no icy treatment. There are no long hours of not talking to each other after a fight.

 _“Stacy, please talk to me.”_   
  
_“I don’t want to talk to you.”_   
  
_“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I argued, you were right—”_   
  
_“Oh, again with that? When will you come to terms with that I’m always right, and you’re not?”_   
  
_“That’s not—”_   
  
_“Go away, Greg.”_

He bites his lip hard. He treasures what Wilson gives him with no takebacks, with no conditions, with nothing to feel terrible about. But he still takes his memories at night, and he thinks about them, about those terrible three months after his surgery. He can’t conceal much sleep most of the time, but he still goes and gives Wilson a chaste kiss, whispers good morning and goes on as if nothing’s happened.

It’s not like he has to tell him— not like he should tell him. Wilson is still friends with Stacy, and she’s never been— she’s never been like _that_ to anyone else. He wouldn’t believe him. He’d get mad at him for the mere insinuation.

 _“No one will believe you, you know? You’re the manipulative bitch in this relationship, after all, dear.”_   
  
Yes, he knows. He knows.

* * *

Wilson gets home late, and House has already looked at his calendar and seen what he was up to. It’s still a source of anxiety, about if he’s got any clue and has just decided to ignore it. His friendship with her is more important than all of that, anyway. He gets it. He gets it.

“House, are you okay?”  
  
He looks up at him, gritting his teeth. “Of course I’m not okay.” He shrugs and picks at a loose thread of his jeans. The background hum of the TV makes him a bit nauseous. Everything makes him nauseous nowadays. “How was your dinner with Stacy?”   
  
Wilson blinks. “Are you upset because of that? Honey, I don’t understand—”   
  
“Shut up,” he snarls, digging his fingers into the cloth, clenching his jaw until it hurts. “I don’t want to hear it.”   
  
“Why are you so mad at her?” he asks gently. “I understand that you hate her decision, but you need to get over it—” 

House snaps right then and there, “I know I should get over it!” he yells. Immediately afterward he goes quiet, silent, watching Wilson’s face, desperate for the reaction he expects. The comfort of it all being the exact same as always. Wilson yelling back and maybe he’ll grab him by his chin and maybe he’ll kick or he’ll slap him or—

Wilson just gives him an exhausted, worried look, and sits on the coffee table, hands folded together. “Is there something you’re not telling me, House?”

He shakes his head.

Wilson squeezes his arm gently. “When you’re ready, do tell me.” His face softens. “Please.”

He nods, unable to say a word. He’s still expecting Wilson to say something hurtful, something mean and terrible that will haunt him for weeks on end.

But it doesn’t come; it never comes. He’s not used to it. To the genuine kindness that Wilson seems to hold up in every step of the way. Wilson is kind, he really is, and he doesn’t understand it.

House isn’t sure if he deserves it.

* * *

After an argument, House can’t help but break.

Wilson is kind, he’s about to apologize, and he can’t take it. This must be a preamble, right? This is him buttering him up, getting him ready for what will come eventually— it can’t be genuine. It has never been genuine.

“Stop apologizing,” House snarls. “I was wrong.”  
  
“Maybe you were,” Wilson agrees, and his blood runs cold. He’s always wrong. “But that doesn’t mean you deserved to get yelled at.”   
  
“I’m always wrong,” he says, voice icy, going back to his usual coping method. He pulls Wilson away like he’s always pulled everyone away. “You don’t have to apologize. Just give me the cold shoulder, goddammit.” 

Wilson blinks a few times and puts a hand on his shoulder. He flinches a little. “House, I’m not going to ignore you after an argument.” There’s something in his eyes, like he knows more than he should, more than House was trying to let on.  
  
House looks up at him, his eyes pricking with tears.

 _“You deserve to get ignored. You’re fucking impossible, Greg.”_

Wilson holds his gaze, gives him a gentle kiss on the forehead. “I understand why you’re reacting like this, House, but I’m not her.”

Of course he’s— of course, he’s perceptive enough to have put the dots together. He clings onto him, trying not to cry.

Wilson pats his back.

“I’m blocking her number,” he says. “I’m sorry, House. You’re safe.”

He bites his lip hard and stays like that, face buried on Wilson’s chest, silently crying as he tries to get used to this kindness, kindness with no ulterior motives.


End file.
